


Lets Have Sex On The Pool Table

by ghettoassenglishman



Series: Take my hand--Take My Whole life too [44]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Pool Table Sex, Smut, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 23:54:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3915406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghettoassenglishman/pseuds/ghettoassenglishman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"“Game on, Gallagher.” He pulls the bottle from Ian's grasp, gulping down a variety of its contents. “You ever played before, or do you just want to see me bend over the table?”"</p><p>Anon prompt: "ian and mickey having rough sex on a pool table"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lets Have Sex On The Pool Table

**Author's Note:**

> I really...really...liked this prompt ok. It was kind of really hot AHAHA
> 
> HOPE YOU LIKED IT!! tell me what you think;)?

Somehow, in his deficiency, Mickey had bribed Kevin into letting them into the Alibi that night. It was important, and slightly rare, that Ian and Mickey had any time alone, so it obvious that Mickey would take that as an advantage to go ahead and bring them there for a _little_ fun.

“Why are we here again?” Ian repeats the question, after a million times he had on the way.

Mickey turns in a smirk, heading over to the bar – his favourite place. Despite Ian's medication rejecting the idea of alcohol, he didn't hesitate to pull a bottle of whisky from behind the counter and draw it to his lips. “Free booze, why the fuck else?”

Ian follows happily, checking out Mickey's ass in the process, he leans an arm against the bar, watching Mickey intensely, his lips slack and watering at the movement of Mickey's mouth against the bottle; slow, intent, curving around the top. “You get it free all the time, what's the difference?”

“Hm,” Mickey's eyes flicker in lust, wavering a hand around the room. “No drunks, no _Frank,_ no rabbiting whores demanding my fucking money. What can I say, I like it fucking peaceful.”

Scoffing, Ian wiggles his fingers for the bottle. “That's a change.” Seductively, he licks the rim of the bottle, taking in the lingering taste of Mickey's lips and cringy tinge of Whisky. Despite the emptiness of the room, they still manage to stick together, shoulders brushing as they snook glances at each-other. Nodding towards the table, snug in the corner, Ian offers, “You wanna play?”

The older man turns to his gaze, snorting a little before nodding in agreement. “Game on, Gallagher.” He pulls the bottle from Ian's grasp, gulping down a variety of its contents. “You ever played before, or do you just want to see me bend over the table?”

They both walk over the green table, incredibly close together. Ian hums in his throat, relishing in the memories and being dug deep into that ass. “I've played a few times,” he mummers, huskily, his hand skimming the bulge of Mickey's ass. “I can't say the same with this, though, had it many times before and wouldn't mind fucking it again.”

Mickey releases a sharp groan from his mouth, gasping a little, in a pant he laughs, “So, you've never played before.” Ian tries to protest, but Mickey winks, gathering the balls across the table, “You can't lie to me, Gallagher, your seductive schemes aren't sharp enough.” Mickey doesn't let Ian's proceedings to check him out, his ass out, go unnoticed, purposely he leans down, bending his ass up before him.

“Frightened of a little competition, are we?” Ian licks his lips, rounding Mickey towards the wall lined with cue's. His breath remains hot on the brunettes neck, his legs slipping in-between Mickey's heated thighs.

Mickey scoffs good-naturedly, hands falling at Ian's hips. “Fuck off. You don't scare me one bit.” Even if he did, Ian couldn't win this, whatever it was.

“How about,” Ian places a gentle kiss against Mickey's jaw, stepping back and an oust to keep Mickey panting. He walks over to the table, cue in his hand, fingers skimming across the top of the table, mouth quirky in the corners. “A bet.”

Regaining himself, Mickey catches his breath, punching himself internally at the fact Ian could get him so worked up so easily. “Stop with the fucking confidence, Gallagher, you ain't fooling me.” He plays along, grabbing his own stick and leaning against the edge of the table. Ian's face smooths at the edges, smile growing darker. Mickey feels himself grow hotter, pants tightening, “What's this bet then?”

Amused, Ian stops in his pace, fingers playing around the curve of the cue. “If I win, you can take me out on a date,” he snickers a little, eyes wondering over Mickey's tensed complexion. Mickey gazes at him, incredulously, as if he can't quite comprehend what he's said, lips tightening into a straight line.

“If I win?” He asks, licking his lips, eyes locked with Ian's.

Ian taps his chin, giddily, still in the act of mass seduction, his shirt up-lifting a little as he raised his hand against the cue stick. “Well, that's your choice.” because, really, he wanted to know what Mickey had in mind for him – he knew the brunette wouldn't just bring him there for free drinks.

Mickey's mouth twists as he contemplates his answers, eyes spelling lust as he trailed his gaze over Ian's clenched muscles peaking through his slick, white shirt. “Fucking deal.” He agrees, smirking wildly. Ian nods, biting at the skin of his bottom lip, tracing Mickey's smooth steps around the table.

Quickly, Mickey racks the balls on their baize, eyes flickering upwards towards Ian each time he heard the redhead gasp at his position over the table. Stepping up, he chalks the top of his cue, before handing it to Ian. As the redhead chalks up his, Mickey drinks from the whisky, grinning at the taste that was so familiar. This time he didn't want it in order to forget.

“You're fucking breaking.” Mickey tries to feign politeness, but that really wasn't his scene, and Ian could read through it anyway. He stands, arms crossed, smug smile on his lips as if he had already called victory. Ian scoffs to himself, undermining Mickey's confidence against his own.

Truth was; he didn't know how to play, not really, but if it meant seeing Mickey bend over the table a good, rough times, he might aswell pretend he did.

“As you wish.” Ian smiles, innocently, chalking the end of his cue again, blowing the excess chalk off – purposely staring up at Mickey through his lashes, his eyes darkening as did his. There was something about the place being empty, the dim atmosphere, that made this even hotter.

Ian lines up on the white ball with a swift stroke, hitting the centre ball head on, hitting it with more force that anticipated, shooting one striped ball into the top-left pocket. The other balls scatter, as he smugly rounds the table, bumping closely into Mickey. “You were saying?” He asks, cockily.

“Fuck off and hit the balls.” Mickey shoots back, a little defeated, he stands by his cue, eyes scattering over the perfect ass that presented itself to him as Ian bent further over the table.

“Stripes.” Ian calls, tapping his fingers against the wooden rim of the table. Mickey grunts beside him, continuously drinking from the bottle had instantly become stuck to his chest. In the next minute, he's pocketed the next three balls, cheering internally at the fact a date was coming closer to his victory.

Watching impassively, Mickey lets out a exhausted, but sweet, sigh from behind him, distracting him from potting the next ball. Shit. Ian rolls his eyes, smacking his lips together, before proudly standing up despite his ultimate fail to ignore the tingle in his body when Mickey's breath hit far against the back of his neck. Fuck.

“ _Damn,_ Gallagher, is something on your mind?” Mickey teases, hand running down the pane of his back, hand sliding closer to he cleft of his ass. “You know, I wouldn't mind watching you lean and stretch across this table all day.” His voice is low, raspy, the only thing that could send a spark through Ian's body, down to his dick in one, and _god_ he was so done for.

There's something in Mickey's voice that Ian can't quite catch yet, it felt more open, and confident, something he didn't take Mickey to have all the time. Then the older man strips from his coat, placing the bottle of alcohol against the side, stretching provokingly in order to raise his shirt. He bends low over the table, ass sticking up like it did when he was on all fours, purposely pointing it in Ian's direction. He knows this is more than a game, Mickey's eyes are tinted with that dangerous lark, that glint of devious scheming.

Ian finds it hard to channel himself, mouth watering at the sight, finally realising what Mickey was talking about. Mickey's black tank is tight against his chest, jeans fit snug around his ass, perking his bulge as it brushed tentatively against the edge of the table. It's something to behold. Ian feels himself lose his train of thought, until he hears the brunette yell out in anger, the white slamming into the corner pocket after he pots four solids effortlessly.

“What a shame.” Ian tuts, shaking his head as Mickey flips him off, standing back up.

Casually, Mickey shrugs after that, reaching over for the destined bottle. He waves his hand, “Don't fucking look at me like that, you prick, it's your shot.”

Ian feels himself heat up, his mouth drying up at the corners, before he challenges, “You're not trying to lose are you?” Because it was always fun to tease Mickey, especially when there was a date on the line – dates that Mickey hated.

“Fuck no,” Mickey discards Ian's comment, frown lifting up into an enlightened smirk that spelt trouble, Ian's even more intrigued. Casually, Mickey swallows, before replying, “I'm winning this, you don't even fucking know what I've got lined up for your ass.”

The redhead feels his dick twitching, his eyes narrowing to the enclosed, smug man just opposite, his crotch in view. Ian takes his opportunity to play a man of his own game, he strips from his jacket, tossing it against a strayed chair, before removing the blue shirt that stuck against his skin. He clenches his abs, leaning over the table with a snicker resting at his lips.

 

Two can play that game.

 

Mickey steps closer, hand fumbling with the tip of the bottle, eyes darkening. “I know what you're fucking doing.”

Ian stops his mind games, tilting his head coquettishly to one side, gently fondling with the cue stick, hand running back and forth against the length slowly. Mickey's eyes nearly bulge from his head, only making Ian continue. “Don't know what you're talking about, Mick, I'm just deciding where to take the next shot, nothing _big.”_ he rolls the words off his tongue, distractedly.

Mickey lets out a sharp intake of breath, trying to contain himself as Ian leans across, hitting the orange stripe into a better position. God, that ass. Mickey would never get over that ass, and the alcohol was already taking its place, brewing in the midst of his veins. Ian pulls himself around the table, directly placing himself before Mickey, ass brushing against the front of the brunettes jeans.

 

And he misses.

 

Mickey stands closer behind him, as Ian's still bent over the table, his curves over the cushion of his ass. “Watch where you fucking wave this, Gallagher.” he threatens, lowly, hands trailing over his cheeks.

Ian gasps, pushing himself backwards into the hard bulge of Mickey's jeans. “I don't plan on it.” he plays, because he couldn't help but groan at the feel of Mickey's dick pressed up against him. It was rare, but it was fucking _glorious._

Mickey breathes at the lobe of Ian's ear, voice delicate and hot, “Be careful what you fucking wish for.” He pats Ian's ass, wandering off to take his shot. With greedy eyes, he leans over the table – a sight that Ian wanted to last forever, he would be – for sure – taking this back in memory. Mickey shoots, hitting the red into the pocket but misses his hit against the yellow.

Grinning, the redhead fondles his cue again, darting his tongue into the side of his cheek. “Date night here we fucking come.” He taunts towards the other man. Mickey merely raises his eyebrow, nodding his head as if he was working something out. A little distracted, Ian takes his shot, managing to knock in his last two stripes.

“What a fucking _shame,”_ Mickey imitates Ian's previous words, biting gaspingly at his bottom lip. “Name your pocket.” he murmurs, trying to take his eyes off Ian's glistening, bare torso that had been praised before him; the way his ribs kicked at the sides, how his abs bumped over his chest, his collar-bones still bruised with marks from their previous round, only a couple of hours earlier.

Darkly, Ian stands up, hand pushing through the strands that threaten to fall. “Top left-hand.” With a wink, a flash of lust, he leans back over, ass sprung up to Mickey. He aims for the black, hitting it hard, but eventually it misses, skirting wide and rolling into the middle of the table. “Shit.” he mutters, earning a snort from behind him.

 

Dick.

 

Mickey smiles a wicked grin, pupils dilating instantly in the sight of Ian, he bends over the table, purposely making his top rise at the side. Effortlessly, he pots the two remaining solids, leaving the table with just the white and the black ball. Ian's practically panting, chest heaving, dick twitching, watching the brunette, his lithe body stretching over the table.

“If I win...” Mickey husks, chalking the end of his cue, eyes boring into his. Ian arches his brow, smirking in question as Mickey offers, but mostly confirms, “I'm going to let you fuck me over this pool-table, rough and fucking hard.”

Ian forgets how to speak, every single muscle south of his navel clenching hard, his dick pressing insanely against the fabric of his pants. Mickey's dirty mouth was something of a wonder, he could listen to it all day, come from it. The way Mickey's mouth curved as he pronounced each word, his tongue flicking behind his teeth, lips shading into a blush red. Holy fucking shit.

“Cat got your fucking tongue, Gallagher?” Mickey teases, this time bending before Ian, ass perked up in an orderly fashion that nearly made Ian crumble at his feet. “Top left.” Mickey mumbles, a little smug, pointing his cue towards the sniggering black ball. With a sniggering, easy grace, Mickey taps the white ball. It glides across the table, knocking into the black causing it to roll and fall into the top left pocket he'd been aiming for.

Ian's mouth drops a gape, his whole target crashing into one. Mickey saunters upwards, mouth twisting up into a triumphant smile, hands absently reaching for the bottle. “I fucking told you so.” he bitterly remarks, eyes boring into Ian's, tightening his insides. Putting down his cue, he drops the bottle against the table, walking over to Ian; hair all tousled, shift rising up against the bridge of his body, jeans still fitted against his ass. “You ain't going to fucking cry, _are_ you?” Mickey teases, barely containing his prideful grin.

Forgetting his defeat, Ian hums, shoving Mickey's back against the edge of the table. “Depends on how hard you let me fuck you.” he hooks a finger in the loop of Mickey's jeans, dragging the smug brunette towards him, lips attaching themselves to the side of his neck, breathing through his nose as Mickey pants beneath him.

“Surprise me.” Mickey challenges, trailing his gaze along the bumps and joints of Ian's shoulders, teeth sinking deeply into his bottom lip.

“Let me,” Ian whispers, moving his head around Mickey's face, licking into the seam of his lips, latching his teeth gently into the skin of Mickey's bottom lip, tugging on it lightly as he pulled it out towards him. His hands trail down Mickey's thighs, trailing down the fabric, palming against the bulge.

Mickey gasps sharply, chest beginning to heave, he gulps, hand resting at the top of Ian's shoulder, nails clawing. “ _Fuck –_ hurry the fuck up _Ian.”_ his pants turn yearning, he reaches down and unbuckles Ian's belt, as the redhead slowly undoes his, his fingers fall beneath the waistband, pulling them down over Ian's ass.

“Eager are we, Mick?” Ian says, pulling out the other man's belt, dropping it to the floor. He enclosed Mickey in with his hips, kicking his jeans off in the process. Leaning in, he dips his hand under the seam of Mickey's jeans, hand sliding down to palm the luscious cock he craved so dearly. The brunette unravels in his touch, legs nearly buckling.

“Shut the fuck up and get in me.” Mickey manages, pulling desperately at the cotton still hiding Ian's dick; the big, monstrous, filling dick that he loved to wrap his mouth around. Once Ian's got Mickey fully undressed, himself included, he chucks Mickey's shirt to the side, hitching the smaller man up onto the table.

Mickey's lying, panting on the table, relaxing into the smooth, firm touch of Ian's hands against his thighs. The leverage felt good; Ian would fuck him on this table and that was all he wanted. “Fuck me, Gallagher, _now.”_ he pleads, spreading his legs further to allow the redhead access.

“Fuck, Mick.” Ian gasps, lining himself between Mickey's legs. He pushes Mickey down, lying his back against the rough surface of the table. His hand trails over the arch of Mickey's chest, dipping his mouth to kiss at the elevated chest, fingers playing with the tip of his nipples, cock throbbing against his own chest.

Reaching down, Mickey goes to touch his leaking cock before Ian swats him away, “No. No. I'm going to fuck you hard, like you wanted.” His voice orderly, demanding, nearly tips Mickey off the edge. There were many things that he loved about Ian fucking him, about his fingers crooked and moving inside of him, but Ian being domineering, pinning his hands above him, it made his insides fall apart. “Holy fuck.” he whispers, tossing his head to the side when Ian's hands pumped against his dick.

Ian eases two fingers inside of him, moving them in a circular motion, mouth licking at the tip of his dick. Crooking his fingers, he grins as Mickey arches his back against the table, arms fraying around trying to stay steadied. The brunette's legs wrap around Ian's back, pushing him further, his moans echoing through the empty four walls, like beautiful music to Ian's ears.

“Sh,” Ian licks against the skin of his thigh, his fingers hitting against _that_ spot. “I've got you.” he whispers again, running his lean hands over the elevated torso of the beautiful specimen laid out before him. Mickey has his eyes closed, clenched, his legs hooked around Ian's waist, he grabs the foiled condom, still in packet, and chucks it towards Ian, pushing his ass back onto his fingers.

Ian slicks Mickey up with his fingers, spitting against his hand. Mickey peers through misted, lust-filled eyes over to his boyfriend, clenching his teeth as the redhead rips the foil packet open with his teeth, pulling out his fingers to roll it against his dick. Mickey whines at the empty feeling, rubbing his ass against the edge of the table for some sort of feeling, before Ian's fingers are replaced with a filling sensation.

“ _Fuck-”_ Mickey shudders, biting into the skin of his arm, looking through his lashes to see Ian between his legs, leaning forward and licking his tongue against the sweat-drips against his chest. They both groan in pleasure, adjusting to the feeling, before Ian takes Mickey's legs and pulls them around him, dragging Mickey closer against the table.

 

God, he'll have a burnt back in the morning.

 

Ian grasps at his hips firmly, easing out of him again teasingly, before he slams back in, causing Mickey to cry out, his hips trying to rock against Ian's. The redhead stills, before placing both hands against his hips, driving himself into the squirming body under his hold. “Fuck, you look so good like this, Mickey.” He groans out, his voice strained, hips rutting against Mickey's.

Mickey's throat lets out a disorientated squeal, hands scratching deeply into the soft skin of Ian's back, nails drawing blood from the tender skin. He rocks with the rhythm, hurling out soft curses and cries each time Ian filled him completely. “You like that, Mick?” Ian asks, delicately, rolling his hips a little slowly, so slow it felt like it hurt.

“Yes, fuck _yes.”_ The brunette barely breathes out, dragging Ian down into a kiss to drown out his pants and desperate cries for release. It's awkward, the position slightly hurts against Ian's back, but he doesn't move at a chance. Their lips coil together, tongues sliding into a dance that they only knew. “ _Harder,”_ he pleads, whispering into Ian's mouth.

The table starts to squeak, it's old legs nearly on verge of break. Ian's left hand reaches from his hip, pumping at his dick, finger sliding over the slit, tauntingly. Mickey's insides quicken, abs and chest tensing as his ass clenched around the thickness filling inside of him. Ian groans contently, feeling it too, his breathing hitched and desperate, gasping into Mickey's mouth. His hips find a fast rhythm, pushing him, higher, harder, driving in faster; Mickey's fingers claw endlessly, into his back, groaning from all inches of his body as Ian's hand moves faster against his dick. “Jesus, Ian.” in a plead to feel his lips, but they can't through each pant that poured out.

Ian's hips become erratic, Mickey pushing back against his sick, the slap of the skin echoing through the emptiness and silence of the bar. Mickey feels it build up, like a ladder of pleasure that never ended, he tightens his grip, lips attaching to Ian's roughly, moaning into his mouth. He surrenders, letting himself release against Ian's hands and the gap between their chests.

Knocking his head back, Ian sucks onto the side of his neck, he too – finding his release a little after, calling out his name, his hand digging deep, bruising against the sharp bone of Mickey's hip. The condom fills, the warm liquid deep in Mickey's hole. Ian collapses on him, head resting against the beat of his chest, his hand whisked in come from Mickey's dick.

“Shit.” Ian mutters through his come-down, trying to catch his breath, kissing a sloppy path along the sweaty, wet skin of Mickey's chest.

Mickey waits out his panting, staring down with a grin plastered against his face; Ian looked exhausted, beat, content against his spot against Mickey's chest. Still filled, legs wound around Ian's hips, he starts to feel the burn against his back, but that doesn't matter. Hand in Ian's hair, he gasps out blurringly, “I really fucking love you.”


End file.
